Part 15

Mrs. James Glenny Wilson.

Fairyland

Do you remember that careless band, Riding o'er meadow and wet sea-sand, One autumn day, in a mist of sunshine, Joyously seeking for fairyland?

The wind in the tree-tops was scarcely heard, The streamlet repeated its one silver word, And far away, o'er the depths of wood-land, Floated the bell of the parson-bird.

Pale hoar-frost glittered in shady slips, Where ferns were dipping their finger-tips, From mossy branches a faint perfume Breathed o'er honeyed Clematis lips.

At last we climbed to the ridge on high Ah, crystal vision! Dreamland nigh! Far, far below us, the wide Pacific Slumbered in azure from sky to sky.

And cloud and shadow, across the deep Wavered, or paused in enchanted sleep, And eastward, the purple-misted islets Fretted the wave with terrace and steep.

We looked on the tranquil, glassy bay, On headlands sheeted in dazzling spray, And the whitening ribs of a wreck forlorn That for twenty years had wasted away.

All was so calm, and pure and fair, It seemed the hour of worship there, Silent, as where the great North-Minster Rises for ever, a visible prayer.

Then we turned from the murmurous forest-land, And rode over shingle and silver sand, For so fair was the earth in the golden autumn, That we sought no farther for Fairyland.

A Winter Daybreak

From the dark gorge, where burns the morning star, I hear the glacier river rattling on And sweeping o'er his ice-ploughed shingle-bar, While wood owls shout in sombre unison, And fluttering southern dancers glide and go; And black swan's airy trumpets wildly, sweetly blow.

The cock crows in the windy winter morn, Then must I rise and fling the curtain by. All dark! But for a strip of fiery sky Behind the ragged mountains, peaked and torn. One planet glitters in the icy cold, Poised like a hawk above the frozen peaks, And now again the wild nor'-wester speaks, And bends the cypress, shuddering, to his fold, While every timber, every casement creaks. But still the skylarks sing aloud and bold; The wooded hills arise; the white cascade Shakes with wild laughter all the silent shadowy glade.

Now from the shuttered east a silvery bar Shines through the mist, and shows the mild daystar. The storm-wrapped peaks start out and fade again, And rosy vapours skirt the pastoral plain; The garden paths with hoary rime are wet; And sweetly breathes the winter violet; The jonquil half unfolds her ivory cup, With clouds of gold-eyed daisies waking up.

Pleasant it is to turn and see the fire Dance on the hearth, as he would never tire; The home-baked loaf, the Indian bean's perfume, Fill with their homely cheer the panelled room. Come, crazy storm! And thou, wild glittering hail, Rave o'er the roof and wave your icy veil; Shout in our ears and take your madcap way! I laugh at storms! for Roderick comes to-day.

The Lark's Song

The morning is wild and dark, The night mist runs on the vale, Bright Lucifer dies to a spark, And the wind whistles up for a gale. And stormy the day may be That breaks through its prison bars, But it brings no regret to me, For I sing at the door of the stars!

Along the dim ocean-verge I see the ships labouring on; They rise on the lifting surge One moment, and they are gone. I see on the twilight plain The flash of the flying cars; Men travail in joy or pain -- But I sing at the door of the stars!

I see the green, sleeping world, The pastures all glazed with rime; The smoke from the chimney curled; I hear the faint church bells chime. I see the grey mountain crest, The slopes, and the forest spars, With the dying moon on their breast -- While I sing at the door of the stars!

Edward Booth Loughran.

Dead Leaves

When these dead leaves were green, love, November's skies were blue, And summer came with lips aflame, The gentle spring to woo; And to us, wandering hand in hand, Life was a fairy scene, That golden morning in the woods When these dead leaves were green!

How dream-like now that dewy morn, Sweet with the wattle's flowers, When love, love, love was all our theme, And youth and hope were ours! Two happier hearts in all the land There were not then, I ween, Than those young lovers' -- yours and mine -- When these dead leaves were green.

How gaily did you pluck these leaves From the acacia's bough, To mark the lyric we had read -- I can repeat it now! While came the words, like music sweet, Your smiling lips between -- "So fold my love within your heart," When these dead leaves were green!

How many springs have passed since then? Ah, wherefore should we count, The years that sped, like waters fled From Time's unstaying fount? We've had our share of happiness, Our share of care have seen; But love alone has never flown Since these dead leaves were green.

Your heart is kind and loving still, Your face to me as fair, As when, that morn, the sunshine played Amid your golden hair. So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be, As we have ever been, And keep our love as fresh and true As when these leaves were green.

Isolation

Man lives alone; star-like, each soul In its own orbit circles ever; Myriads may by or round it roll -- The ways may meet, but mingle never.